


At Eternity's Gate

by PointyDointy



Category: Clone High
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, High School, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, JFgogh, M/M, Opposites Attract, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PointyDointy/pseuds/PointyDointy
Summary: They roared for attention once more, refusing to budge even while the cuts layered. It wasn’t enough, it was never enough.Sobs wracked his frail frame, hot tears crashing onto his lap. Anger bubbled in Van Gogh’s chest, he wanted more than this, a life of dark rooms and loneliness.--Friendship comes from strange places, even from those you least expect.Inspired by Grieving_sunflowers and spedlesTitle based on Vincent Van Gogh's painting, 'At Eternity's Gate'
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh
Comments: 49
Kudos: 354





	1. Cold and Familiar

A cool breeze blew into the dimly lit room, bringing along with it the heavy scent of coming rain. The moonlight danced on the wooden floorboards, swirling as the leaves obstructed the light from view.

Autumn was approaching, along with it, the threat of High School. Van Gogh blinked in the dark, eyes lingering at his window. Crickets chirped, the occasional car rumbled past, but overall, it was quiet. Yet, worries swarmed his mind, each pushing itself forward to be heard, to be mulled over. He rubbed at his knuckles, attempting to soothe himself, but they persisted.

Vincent’s gaze drifted to the floor, his chest tightening like a coil, _Will anybody like me? Am I doomed to live alone? I will never be as good as him. I’m a failure._ He furrowed his brows sourly, his fingers beginning to dig themselves into his forearm.

_Of course I am, only your foster parents know you exist. How pathetic is that? Why can’t I be normal?_ Vincent stood, reaching for his drawer, it was too much. He fumbled about in the darkness before his hand bumped into something cold, familiar.

It clicked into position as he took a seat and he closed his eyes to take a steadying breath. Pushing back his sweater, he let the blade run across his upper arm, watching as dark red beaded after the box cutter. The thoughts were quelled, but only for a moment.

They roared for attention once more, refusing to budge even while the cuts layered. It wasn’t enough, it was never enough. Sobs wracked his frail frame, hot tears crashing onto his lap. Anger bubbled in Van Gogh’s chest, he wanted more than this, a life of dark rooms and loneliness.

He growled, letting the box cutter dig into his skin again and again and again. Never enough.

_What about the ear?_

\--

Warm blood slugged down Vincent’s face, creating a lovely maroon on his coat. Relief flooded him, then followed by pain, spotty vision, and shrieks of terror from his foster mother.


	2. Tears of Rage

Vincent stared at himself in the mirror, wrapping a bandage over his head gingerly. Barely a week had passed since… the incident, and the thought of his peers seeing him like this made him feel ill. 

With a somber expression, Vincent finished buttoning up his stained coat and descending down the stairs. Better to walk than suffer the ride to school.

“Good morning, sweetie,” A bubbly voice called from the kitchen, “How’s your ear doing?”

“Well,” Vincent replied, eyes flickering to the door across the hall. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the exit, trudging to the other room.

“Ah, don’t worry, the doctor said it will heal up in no time,” His foster mother smiled, placing a bowl of raisin bran in front of him. “Here, I figured you could use some fruit in your diet. I read online how the other brands muck up your digestive system and how horrible it is for growing boys like you.” 

With distaste, he began swirling the spoon around the bowl, mumbling thanks under his breath. As unappetizing as it looked, the cereal was as gone as quickly as it came. 

\--

It was cold and sunny, leaves of red and yellows dancing in the wind. Van Gogh shoved his hands in his pockets, glad for the amount of layers he had. 

By regulations, all of the clones’ houses were under two miles from the school, but with his luck, his was rather far. It did not bother him, grateful to mull over his thoughts and gain inspiration from his surroundings. 

Students covered the campus, greeting and catching up with their peers. Van Gogh shrunk into himself, keeping his head low while heading to his home class. No use to try and socialize when he’d only make a fool of himself.

Vincent peered into the classroom, relieved to see a few students getting ready for class. Taking a seat in the back, he laid his satchel down by the desk, pulling out some art supplies.

“Is this seat taken?” 

His heart lurched out of his chest, Van Gogh’s head whipping towards the culprit. He blinked, “No?” Taking a quick glance about the room, there were plenty of seats to choose from. Why was Caesar, of all people, deciding to sit next to him? Sure, they shared one class together last year, but they weren’t actually friends. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“That’s good,” Caesar smiled, “I was worried I was not going to see anyone I knew.” He plopped himself down next to Van Gogh. 

Vincent shrunk into himself, feigning a small smile, “Yeah.” He dug his fingernails into his palm, ‘ _ Yeah’? That’s all you have to say? _ The ringing of the bell snapped him back to reality, and the class began to settle. 

Mr. Vinci took his place in front of the room, “Today we will be learning..” Van Gogh tapped out, staring down at the desk, tracing the wood marks with a finger. 

Caesar leaned over to the other, voice low, “JFK is having a party later tonight. I was thinking you could come along, if you have nothing going on.”

“Huh?” He blinked in disbelief at the roman, “You want me to go? I’m, yeah, sure, I’ll be there.”

\--

_ Why did I agree to that? It was out of pity, don’t you see? _ Van Gogh dropped his bag on the ground, laying down on his bed. He wrinkled his nose sourly,  _ Nobody wants me there. _ He wrapped himself with his fleece blanket, subjecting himself to a couple hours of sulking. 

\--

He couldn’t breathe, his chest felt tight with apprehension. He was invited, why didn’t he go? Curling up in a ball, Van Gogh reached for the drawer, but he hesitated. The goth girl.. Joan set up a hotline today, didn’t she? He’d hate to send his foster mother into a frenzy again.

Punching in the numbers, he held the phone up to his good ear, and lo and behold, someone picked up. The background noise was louder than he anticipated, like a party.

“What’s up?” They greeted, almost yelling into the phone. It turned more serious, “So, you’re depressed.”

An odd start, but he needed to talk to someone, anyone. “I feel so alone, nobody wants me around.” He took a deep breath to steady his voice, “Sometimes I turn off the lights in my room and cry.”

“I’m sorry, uh, Van Gogh, could you speak up?” 

He drew the phone closer to his face, “The only way I can cling to my sanity is that nobody knows how lonely I truly am.”

Laughs flooded the room, sharp and mocking. “Wait, am I on speaker phone?”

“Hey, would Gandhi put somebody on speaker phone?”

“No!”

Anger flooded Vincent, tensing up in his chair. “This is Gandhi, how could you?” He asked, quivering. He stared at the phone, focusing on not letting out a sob.

“Hey man, Gandhi is anti violence, not anti comedy.” The phone started beeping afterwards, leaving Van Gogh to bury his face in his hands, letting out shaky sobs. 


	3. Isolated Oak Tree

Bile rose up in his throat, sending cascading sludge into the toilet bowl. Van Gogh’s shoulders shivered with every heave, fat tears rolling off his cheeks into the mess of water below. He screwed his eyes shut, reaching up to send the disgusting mixture away from him. 

Now everybody knew how worthless he was, how he spent his nights. Rage coiled in his stomach, much like a rattlesnake ready to strike. He wasn’t surprised Gandhi would do this, he’d expected it, yet he felt betrayed, hurt.

Van Gogh pushed himself away from the toilet, arms feeling weak and legs feeling like jelly. He wanted- no, needed to get back at Gandhi, to show him the anguish he caused. _I need to go to that party._

Vincent reluctantly stood, wrinkling his nose at the sour, burning taste in his mouth. Stepping out of the bathroom, he scouted the hallway, eyes peeled for his foster mother. Nothing but his own sharp breathing. He’d snuck out plenty of times before, heading off to a nearby meadow to sulk or paint. Letting his feet fall in a familiar pattern, he made his way to the front door without making a noise.

Van Gogh squinted in the dark, feeling around for his boots around the landing. He jumped when his hand bumped into the leather, not quite expecting the shoes to be so close to him. Shoving his feet into them with ease, he slipped out into the depth of the night.

The chill of autumn bit at his nose, with his eyes adjusting to street lights illuminating the empty roads. It was easy to locate JFK’s house, the jock announcing his address to the whole school earlier that morning. Wrapping his arms around his torso, he slunk through the dark, ears and eyes peeled for the chaos of a high school party. 

\--

Foamy cheap beer sloshed in the cup, perfect for such a party. JFK tipped the red solo cup upwards, downing the bitter liquid. He could not believe the audacity of that bitch, choosing Abe over him? He ought to give the bean pole a knuckle sandwich, but at the moment, he let his eyes wander the crowd. He had no clue of what he was looking for, but he was looking for something. 

Rustling in the bushes across the lawn caught JFK’s gaze, curiously peering over the sea of heads to get a better look. He dropped his nearly finished cup, rolling up his sleeves, no one was going to nail some hot chick but him!

\--

Sure, he was stalking Gandhi, but who wouldn’t after what happened? Van Gogh shifted in the bush, getting on his knees while he stared at his opposer. He tensed when Gandhi and Joan came closer to the bush, ready to spring out to sock him in that smug face of his. 

Anticipation swirled in his stomach as Gandhi drew closer. The seconds felt like hours, and the two had gotten so close to where he could hear snippets of their conversation.  _ Now! _ Vincent pushed himself off the ground, but reeled back, a hand gripping the back of his coat. He let out a strangled gasp, grasping at his coat to lessen the pressure on his neck. He scrambled for purchase, but he was simply lifted off the ground with little to no effort.

“Van Gogh?” Came a shocked voice behind him, “Er, uh, why were you in a bush?”

\-- 

JFK turned the shortstack around, holding him out in front of him like a kitten.  _ Was he able to score some floozy tonight?  _ Inspecting the bush closer, he found it was empty, spare for a boot that had fallen off from Vincent’s foot. _No floozy, was he just sitting in the bush?_

Van Gogh twisted in his grip, but it was no use, the jock had a firm grip on the coat. “Let me go!” He hissed breathlessly, eyes darting behind JFK. He glanced behind his shoulder, but only saw Gandhi and Joan staring back at the two.

With a puzzled look, the jock let out an amused huff, turning his head back to the half-pint. With the beer clouding his judgement, he slurred, “Er, what are you doing here? I didn’t invite you.” He may shared the information to the whole school, but that didn't mean anyone could come. Then again, Abraham Lincoln managed to sneak his way in with the promise of beer.

"I did, John," Caesar called. Putting a hand on the jock's broad shoulder, "Let him go, you're scaring him half to death."

\-- 

Van Gogh’s breathing quickened, face flushing with embarrassment. People were starting to stare and point, murmuring to each other about who knows what.  _ Please just let me go.  _ He pleaded, unable to utter a word. His tongue felt like cotton, drying up any words that came to mind.  _ I am pathetic. _

“Whatever,” JFK replied for him, letting Vincent drop down to the grass. The red-head scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off to try to retain some of his dignity. He looked up, surprised to see the jock holding out his boot. 

“Here, uh, take it,” He insisted, pushing the leather boot into Van Gogh’s chest. The jock took a step back, letting his sleeves fall back down to his wrists. 

He realized he was staring, looking away, ears burning with the snickers from the students watching.  _ I have to get out of here, I need to go now.  _ Vincent moved away from JFK, boot in hand. He felt woozy, stumbling numbly away from the party. He needed to get out of there, just keep moving, just keep walking. 

Letting his feet to the work, Van Gogh let his mind hammer him with bouts of self-loathing, shame, and the feeling of dread. It settled like a rock in his stomach, and before he knew it, he was standing in a field. 

Small white flowers peppered the meadow, reflecting the moonlight. Whispers of tall grass reached Van Gogh’s ears, swaying in the light breeze. A lone tree stood in the middle on a hill, beckoning him to sit underneath it. Relief flooded him, eyes drooping with exhaustion, stumbling over to the oak. Leaves crunched under foot, some damp with dew, but he settled underneath the tree. He could feel his ear begin to bleed, but Van Gogh didn't care. Who's to notice if it didn't heal? Or if he was missing for a night or so? 

He curled up into a ball, pressing himself into the rough bark of the tree. Closing his eyes, he listened to the lightning bugs flutter around his head and the whistle of the grass. Sleep washed over him, dreamless and peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for changing the tags so much, I toyed with the idea of gangogh, but I decided to make this fic more jfgogh based. I am a sucker for opposites attract lol


	4. Da Vinky?

Van Gogh felt stiff as he woke, bones creaking due to his uncomfortable position on the tree. He could barely feel his fingertips, he swore it hadn’t been this cold during the night. With a grunt, he pushed himself onto his knees,  _ What time was it? It couldn’t be past noon, could it? _

Obscured by the clouds, the sun was cold, leaving little to no warmth on Van Gogh’s face. With a shiver, he got to his feet, slipping his foot into the boot across from him. JFK, the oaf, held his party on a weekday, leading for all the participants to crawl back to school the next morning. Vincent was not exempted from this, but he knew he’d be terribly tardy.

Returning back to the street, he began the trek home, but nothing seemed familiar in this place. The sidewalk stretched on and on, dotted with the occasional house. He kept his distance from any runner that crossed his path, but as he walked further along, he grew more confused. 

He was lost.

“I’m just saying Cleo has to pay attention to me now.”

Vincent jumped as a cluster of voices faded into earshot behind him. Looking over his shoulder, Abe, Joan, and Gandhi were headed down the sidewalk towards him. Wait. Gandhi?

Panic gripped him, and he picked up his pace to keep ahead of the group, but with his short legs compared to theirs, he did not make much progress. 

“Hey! Lil’ Gogh!” Gandhi called, followed by steps quickening to catch up with the dutch painter. 

A hand grabbed Van Gogh’s shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. He turned to look at Gandhi, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anger.  _ Was he here to make fun of me again? _

Instead, Gandhi grinned wide, “What are you doing here? You never walk down this way!” Noticing how tense Vincent was, he pulled away his hand, “That party was wild, don’t you think?”

Joan, bless her soul, interrupted Gandhi’s ramblings, “Where are your things?” She waved a hand vaguely around the painter, “Your satchel?” 

Van Gogh’s thoughts swirled around his head, jamming together in one ball, “Uh, I left them at school.” He shifted his gaze away, folding his arms defensively.

She raised a brow, but did not press on the subject. “You can walk with us, if you’d like. School’s only a block away.” 

Taking a spot behind the group, Van Gogh trailed after the group, half-listening to their conversation. He spared a few glances to Gandhi, worrying that the teen would crack a joke about him. 

Yet, nothing of the sort happened, and the painter grew more comfortable, letting the others lead him out of the maze of houses.

\--

He had no school supplies, yet here he was, wrinkled clothes, frizzy hair, and a bloodied bandage. Van Gogh was given a couple of stray glances, but overall, it was not anything he wasn’t used to. Shame crept up on him as he made his way to his home class, entering without anything.

Caesar had already sat down, regarding Van Gogh with a curious glance. With a small, feigned smile, he sat down, focusing his attention on the table. 

The class started as usual, Van Gogh desperately trying to follow, but without the proper materials, he was not able to. He plopped his head into his arms, curling his hands into fists, and digging his nails into the palm. With how this day was going, Van Gogh could hope for nothing more than lunch in the bathroom. 

With the pencils dragging across papers, Vincent could picture the warm up for the day, either a weird alien in a bathtub, or something of that nature. It was relatively quiet, easy to think.

“Van Gogh!” Mr. Vinci sharply called from the front, bringing the clone to look to the teacher abruptly. The class turned to look at him, their eyes burning into his face. “Stay with me after class.”

Drawing a hand over his face sheepishly, he felt the gazes slowly return back to their warm-ups.  _ Could this day get any worse? _

\--

As the rest of the class filed out, Van Gogh stood to head up to Mr. Vinci. Fiddling with his fingers nervously, he watched Caesar wave goodbye before heading out as well. 

Van Gogh padded over to the front desk, hanging to the side while Mr. Vinci finished up some of the assignments of the day. “Sorry for earlier, sir,” He murmured under his breath.

Mr. Vinci gave him an odd look, “Whatever do you mean?” When Van Gogh didn’t answer with a follow up, he continued, “A student in your grade has been struggling with art, and I figured you’d be the best choice to tutor him. There’s a co-assignment coming up, and I would like you to work with him.”

Van Gogh stared at his teacher blankly. He’s never heard of an art assignment with partners before. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, threatening to rise up through his throat. “Who am I going to work with?” He croaked. 

“JFK, I tried asking other students, but they have all already chose their partner,” Mr. Vinci replied.

  
_ Oh no. _


	5. Pedernal

With a stone in his stomach, Van Gogh watched as the clock ticked by. Mr. Vinci asked him to stay after school that day in order to get to know his classmate, yet the time could not go any slower. 

Five more minutes until class was over. 

\--

JFK sauntered his way to the art room, shooting some finger guns toward some hot floozies nearby. With a shit-eating grin, he left to group to giggle behind him.

Reaching for the doorknob, he pondered whether or not this was a good decision. Taking classes from some emo art kid he’d only seen in passing? _My grades aren’t that bad. I can take care of them by myself._ _Although… my gay foster dads would want me to do better in school._

Admittedly, he was a tad late, but fashionably late, he’d always say. His eyes were drawn to the only person sitting in the room, a large piece of paper in front of him. With an exasperated sigh, he sat down next to the short-stack.

“So, er, whatcha planning to teach me?” He leaned back in the seat, propping up his head by his arms.

Van Gogh spared JFK a nervous glance, fiddling with his hands. “The basics, really,” He murmured, nudging over a pencil to the jock. 

JFK took it in hand, raising a brow to Van Gogh. _The basics? What was he, a child?_

He felt like he was about to barf, alone in a room with the school’s most adored guy. Total opposites. No doubt Mr. Vinci set them up to fail. He cleared his throat, “Uh, let’s see what you can do first.”

Van Gogh watched as the jock began to sketch out a… guy on a skateboard saying ‘Cool!’

Gobsmacked, Vincent blinked at the doodle, not quite expecting what JFK had drawn. _Was this some kind of joke? A prank?_ “Okay…” He started, the bitter taste of irritation rising in the back of his throat.

“Isn’t it, er, uh, cool? I think it’s my best work yet,” JFK smiled, tapping on the doodle, “I don’t think, uh, I need to be taught.”

Sparing a harsh look towards the jock, Van Gogh shrugged, “Fine by me.” He stood, putting the supplies back into their proper place. He could do the assignment all by himself, after all, he didn’t need any help from some future high school dropout. 

As the art kid walked out of the classroom, JFK grunted, “Hey, wait up, er, Van Gogh!” He pushed himself out of the chair, hurrying after him. _How could he move so fast?_ Skidding to a stop, he nearly tripped over the short-stack. 

“Hold on, wait,” The jock rubbed at the back of his neck, glad for the absence of witnesses. “I admit I’m, uh, not the best drawer-”

“Artist,” Van Gogh cut in, skeptical of JFK’s actions. Folding his arms, he took a step back to get a better look at his face.

“-Artist, and, er, uh, I could use your help,” JFK admitted sheepishly, “Could we practice at your house?”

“No,” Vincent replied sharply, hot fear coursing through his veins. His foster mother would freak if he brought home someone like this guy. He cleared his throat, pink dusting his cheeks with shame, “Uhm, yours would be better, I mean.” 

“Great!” JFK grasped Vincent’s arm, pulling him along, “Let’s, er, get going.” With little to no effort, he dragged him down the halls and to JFK’s convertible. The school was empty, spare for a few stranglers, but none who would pay too much attention to the two.

Shielding his face from the campus, Van Gogh turned his attention to the inside of the car. Fuzzy dice adorned the mirror above the sleek, wooden dashboard. An expensive car for a guy with expensive tastes. 

The revving of the engine brought Van Gogh back to the present, leaving him to blink at JFK in surprise. Earning a chuckle, he whipped his head away from the jock. “How far away is your house?”

“Not too far, er, only a block or two away,” JFK informed, beginning to pull out of the parking lot. “Driving’s uh, faster,” He defended, “‘Stead of walking.” 

The rest of the drive was quiet, the wind rustling Van Gogh’s hair, nearly sending his bandage off into the world. Holding it down with a hand, he saw the oh-so familiar house come into view. _Did his parents know about his party?_ Worry wormed in his stomach as they got closer and closer, panic following suit.

“Here we are,” JFK stated cheerifully, leaning over to grab Van Gogh’s satchel. Hot fear shot through him, snatching the bag back, “Don’t touch that!” He gritted.

Shock painted his features, and the jock pulled away, “Uh, okay.” Stepping out of the car, he headed towards the front door, assuming Van Gogh would follow suit. 

Vincent hung his head, carrying out his bags towards the house. No doubt JFK thought he was some weird freak hoarding his stuff, but that is just life, he supposed. He took a deep breath before entering the house, unsure of whether to take off his shoes or leave them by the door.

“How was school, baby?” A plump man looked down the hallway, distracted by the pamphlet he was holding. With a glance, he gasped, turning his body towards the two, “Carl! Baby brought his boyfriend over!” 

“He’s not my boyfriend!” JFK protested, “He’s my study buddy!” 

“Whatever you say, baby,” Wally smiled, stepping aside for the two to pass. Van Gogh averted his gaze away, _Boyfriend? Like anyone would even want me._ As they ascended up the stairs, he caught a snippet of Wally murmuring, “-bit small for him.” 

“You can put your stuff over there,” JFK pointed to the foot of his bed. 

Placing his satchel down on the bed, Van Gogh found himself standing there awkwardly, taking in his surroundings. It was just like how he imagined it. Wait- Imagined?

JFK settled down on the floor, “What was the project again? Something with… flowers?”

Van Gogh nodded slowly, “Yeah, we’re doing a lesson on Georgia O’Keeffe.” He took a seat in front of JFK, placing a couple sketch pads issued to him by Mr. Vinci in front of them. “Our painting is supposed to be close up flowers.” 

It came easy to him, talking about art, and he was sure JFK could tell. The jock was staring at him awfully close, giving him goosebumps. Vincent cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably until he shifted his gaze away to the paper in front of him. 

“So.. we’re, uh, drawing flowers?” JFK huffed disdainfully, leaning onto his hands behind him, “What are we? Dames?”

Van Gogh scrunched up his face like he ate something sour, “No. But if you want to pass your class, you better draw some flowers.” 

With a grumble, JFK leaned forward, pressing the pencil to the sketch pad. It was a crude drawing, something a parent would put on the fridge, but it was progress. “There, happy?”

Van Gogh didn’t reply right away, reaching to get a closer look at the jock’s drawing. “It’s a good start,” He admitted, “Although, Mr. Vinci would like us to do something more realistic than…” He gestured towards JFK’s work of art, “That.”

“Oh? So you’re saying my work isn’t er, uh, good enough for ya, huh?” JFK accused, appalled at how forward this emo kid was being, quite the opposite than what he’d seen from his party.

“N-No, I mean-” Vincent frowned, digging his fingernails into his wrist, “It’s good.” He jumped, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. _Who could be calling me? I don’t have any friends._

Pulling the phone out of his pocket, all the blood drained from his face. In bold white letters, it read, ‘Mama’. “Er, I gotta go,” He scrambled onto his feet, _How could I let myself lose track of time?_

“Already? It’s only 5 pm,” The jock pointed out, not budging from his spot on the floor.

Van Gogh shook his head, stuffing his stuff into his satchel without caution, his wiry hands darting across the floor. “Yeah,” He muttered, shouldering on his bag, “Uh, bye, see you tomorrow?”

Before JFK knew it, Vincent was gone, leaving him in a too-empty room. “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” He murmured to no one. 


	6. Almond Blossoms

His heart hammered at his ribcage, threatening to burst out,  _ How could I forget my own foster mother’s birthday? What kind of a son am I? _

Hand holding his satchel close to him, he could hear his blood pumping through his ears and the loud clacking of his boots as he ran.  _ Should’ve asked JFK to drive me there… No! You don’t want his pity do you? You can get there in time. _

Van Gogh clambered up the cobbled stairs up to the front door, ushering himself inside. “Mama?” He called.

“There you are,” His foster mother hissed, arms folded across her chest. “Where have you been? You’re never this late getting home.”

“I-” Van Gogh started, but what could he say? He forgot about the only person that remotely cared about him for a jock. 

His foster mother shook her head, turning her back against him, “No, I don’t need an excuse. I left you a piece of cake on the counter.” She sighed, “I’m going to hang out with my girl friends, call me if you need anything.” With that, she was gone. 

The grandfather clock ticked along, the dry light illuminating the lonesome plate of cake. Belly squirming, Van Gogh turned his back on the desert, heading up to his room. Shaking off his boots, he flopped onto his bed, mind swirling. 

With a sigh, he buried his face into the pillow, half-tempted still the air in his lungs with it, yet he turned his attention to his lamp. The warm light cascaded down his desk, shining onto the navy blue carpet softly. Letting his mind drift, he felt himself slip into unconsciousness. 

\--

Flipping over his flunked math test, JFK rested his chin in his hand, furrowing his brows. Even with extra help from his teachers, there was barely any improvement in his grades. He’d flash a smile, gain extra credit, but still fail the next day’s test. Maybe he needed to actually study instead of pining after Cleo. 

_ Maybe Van Gogh can help me.  _ JFK mulled over the thought, the art kid was supposed to come over until the art project was done. Why not use his status for some additional tutoring?

“Jacky boy,” came a harsh whisper from his right, “What did you get?” Ponce leaned in close, the desk creaking under the unfamiliar weight.

JFK grinned, facing his best friend, “Oh, you, uh, know, an ‘A’. Nothing more than the best for a Kennedy.” 

Class ticked along, the teacher’s voice fading into the background of JFK’s thoughts. He’d go talk with him during lunch, it wasn’t like Van Gogh would be talking to anybody else.

The bell roused the class up from their seats, sending them running out to their lunch table, eager to socialize properly. JFK kept an eye out for a flash of orange hair, grateful for his height advantage, but he didn’t spot any.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Jack?” Ponce called behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder to slow him down. “Got a hot date?”

With a confused expression, JFK blinked at Ponce, Van Gogh was not a sexy broad, no way he’d date him. He’s straight. If Ponce noticed his reaction, he did not react to it, “You’re so detached, man. Come on, let’s have lunch at the Grassy Knoll, on me.”

JFK waved a hand, pulling away from Ponce, “No, er, uh thank you, Poncey. I’ve got a thing do, uh, go do.” He smiled, walking away before Ponce could get in a word. 

Scouting out the hallways, JFK could not find a sign of Van Gogh, not even in the art hallway. Grumbling under his breath, he began to take out his phone to text Ponce when he heard banging behind him. Curious, JFK inspected the sound, peering into the slots of the locker, taken aback to see Van Gogh cramped up in it.

“What are you, er, uh, doing in there, lil’ Gogh?” JFK tilted, stifling a laugh. Clearing his throat, he jangled at the lock experimentally.

“What do you think, asshat?” Van Gogh hissed, a series of banging following, most likely from his movement. “Think I put myself in here?”

“Why ye-” JFK stopped, catching onto the artist’s sarcasm, “Er, uh, no.” Sticking out his tongue, he began turning the combination lock, “You’re, uh, lucky I’ve done this plenty of times.” 

With a click the locker swung open, Van Gogh tumbling out of it into JFK’s arms. He uprighted the artist, letting out a hearty laugh, “Watch where you’re going, pip squeak.” 

Van Gogh swatted at the large hands hovering near him, flustered. “Thanks,” He muttered, hiding his red face by looking down to the ground, “You didn’t have to do that.”

JFK shrugged it off, “I wasn’t gonna let my, er, uh, study buddy rot in there. I do need to pass art.” 

The red dropped off Van Gogh’s face, replaced with a sour expression, “Oh, yeah, right.” Pushing past JFK, he weaved between the groups of students clustered by lockers, ignoring the looks they regarded him with.

“Hey-! Wait up!” JFK trailed after Van Gogh, finding it relatively easy to catch up due to his little legs. “I was thinking we could, uh, go to the Grassy Knoll, compare our work. You know?”

Van Gogh spared him a look, considering the proposition. “Okay, for letting me out of the locker.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
